A/N: Late Christmas fic! Although looking at the title of this one, I think I actually have until Twelfth Night, which I think is...a Shakespeare play. Still. Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas, New Year, or anything else.

A/N2: For InSilva. Happy Christmas, Happy New Year, just generally happy, mate.

1.

The first sign, not that Terry realised it, was the large, plastic partridge nestled in his ornamental pear tree. It appeared to be staring directly into his office, and every time anyone walked within ten feet, it nodded and started singing 'Jingle Bell Rock' in a manner that was almost, but not completely, entirely off key.

He gritted his teeth; next year, he would have to be sure to take a more...personal...interest in his interior designers' plans for holiday decorations. To be honest, he didn't really care much for Christmas time. There might be more foot traffic through the door, but a lot of it was office Christmas parties with limited play, or worse families with hordes of children, running riot through the restaurants and doing the sort of job of distracting his security personnel that Ocean and his merry band of miscreants could only dream of. Still, things were expected, and Terry had to put up with it. He had far more important things going on right now.

After the most disastrous opening night in the history of Las Vegas, The Bank was starting to claw its way back, and Terry was disinclined to let that happen. He'd sent his usual private investigators to look for any irregularities during construction – there was always something, after all. Taxes that hadn't been paid, or bribes that had been, and his investigator had found them all right, only there hadn't been any evidence linking back to Bank. No, instead it had led straight to Tishkoff, and as it turned out, Terry didn't have the slightest problem with that. The safe in his office was positively full of files and any one of them would be enough to send Tishkoff to prison for at least ten years.

He had the District Attorney coming over tonight. He would hand over the files and then sit back peacefully and watch the fireworks.

The partridge started singing again, and he could feel his left eye start to twitch.

They looked at the view into Terry's office in silence for a long moment.

"Really, why?" Linus burst out at last. It wasn't the first time he'd asked.

"You want Reuben to go to prison?" Danny asked, not looking round, his arms folded over the back of Livingston's chair.

"Of course not," Linus spluttered.

"You think Terry wouldn't notice if we were just running merrily over his casinos?" Rusty asked, his elbow balanced lightly on Danny's shoulder.

"Well, yes, but..." Linus took a deep breath. "I get why we're doing this incredibly stupid thing, I just want to know why we're doing it in this incredibly stupid way."

They looked at each other for a long second. Then they turned and smiled at Linus. "It's Christmas," they chorused.

2.

It wasn't just his staff that were overindulging in Christmas paraphernalia, Terry realised as he brought up his daily schedule on his Blackberry and watched, with mild disgust, as two doves flew across the screen and settled at the top of his To Do List. That was quite simply tacky. He was inclined to write to the company to complain. He was a serious man and he didn't need that sort of nonsense. Honestly, if he had to look at that every time he updated his schedule until Christmas it might just be too irritating to stand.

He spent ten minutes or so trying to find a way to turn it off, but there was nothing. That was just fantastic. With a deeply disgruntled sigh, he did his best to put it out of his mind and focus instead on his tasks for the morning. It looked like he was in meetings until lunch when he would have a chance to check in with the security office. Hopefully nothing would go too badly wrong until then.

"So, what makes them turtle doves instead of normal doves?" Virgil asked Livingston with interest.

Livingston looked panicked. "Uh, well, I mean, this was all rather last minute so I just took the first result from a Google Image search and animated it. I didn't know there was going to be a quiz." He looked rather green at the thought.

"What's so Christmas-y about a turtle dove anyway?" Turk wondered.

Virgil elbowed him. "Nothing, doofus, unless there's two of them. They have to come in pairs."

Turk grinned. "That's what she said."

"We've got Terry's schedule?" Danny interrupted, when it looked like things were only going to get worse."

"Yes," Livingston agreed immediately. "Right here, Danny. We can change whatever we need to."

"Okay then." He smiled. "Let's get to work."

3.

When Terry walked into the security room he was more than a little discomfited to see the three men on duty – Wilson, Klein and Branding – turn round and beam at him. He wasn't used to getting that sort of reaction. It was more than a little troubling.

"Mr Benedict, sir," Klein said happily. "Thank you for the pulley."

He blinked and ran the sentence back through his head a few times, but in the end he had to ask. "Pulley?"

"That French chicken," Wilson explained, gesturing at three plates with chicken carcasses laid out on them. "It was delicious."

"Poulet," he told Klein with a tight smile. "You meant poulet."

"Pulley, yeah," Klein nodded. "That's what I said. It was delicious."

Of course, he'd asked Marcia, his PA, to arrange special Christmas dinners for all staff who were working over the festive period. He hadn't thought that had started quite yet, but he supposed that the extra expense would be offset by the boost in staff morale. If it encouraged them to work harder, it was cheap at the price, and if it didn't, he could lay the blame squarely at Marcia's door. "I'm glad to hear it," he said, offering a benevolent smile, every inch caring boss. "Now, has anything happened I should know about?"

"Nothing so far, sir," Branding said seriously. "It's been a quiet morning."

"Good," he said, his lips pursed. "Good. Now, for this afternoon I want - " His phone suddenly chimed with an alert, and frowning, he drew it out and brought up his schedule, ignoring the annoying doves. There was a new appointment for some rainforest fundraiser in the main entrance of the Mirage. It had just been added by the Events department. He smiled; he'd told them to look out for more charitable opportunities. At this time of year a generous image was everything.

"Mr Benedict, sir?" Branding asked. "What do you want for this afternoon?"

"Same as ever," he said crisply. "Eyes open and alert me to anything out of the ordinary. Anything at all."

"How long will it take to work?" Frank asked as Yen walked back into the room, throwing the waiter's tray onto the sofa with an angry comment. The suggestion that he'd be the least recognised hadn't exactly gone down well.

Basher shrugged. "Same stuff we used on the bloke from the Five Diamond Award. Slightly lower dose, should be about an hour before they start feeling it."

Turk pulled a face. "Can't help feeling sorry for them."

"They work for Benedict they're fair game," Saul told him. "They will do a lot worse to us if they catch us in Benedict's office."

"At this stage, they'd do a lot worse to us if they catch us in Las Vegas," Frank said unhappily. "In case you haven't noticed, Benedict's not exactly our number one fan."

"Yeah, don't think we have a number one fan," Turk complained. "Why don't we get any groupies?"

Yen vaulted over the back of the sofa and said something fast and sniggery.

"Doesn't count," Livingston called over from the desk. "Rusty just has that effect."

"Besides," Frank grimaced. "Would you really want Terry Benedict as a groupie?"

"Ew," Turk said with deep and heartfelt emotion.

"That's Terry entering the main entrance to the Mirage," Livingston said, staring at the monitor. "Linus is in position."

4

The moment Terry walked into the Mirage he was accosted by a parrot. It swooped down out of nowhere with an unholy screech, heading straight for his head, and instinctively he leapt back, throwing his arms up to protect himself, and he could feel its claws trailing up his jacket. What the hell?

He looked up to see several potted trees that looked vaguely tropical, and three other parrots flying between trees and two people dressed in khaki shorts and shirts. There were banners everywhere proclaiming that the Mirage supported the Friends of the Amazon.

"Born ready!" one of the parrots called across the room as it weaved across the room, picking up a shiny plastic card and carrying it back across the room to the trainers.

"And there we go, folks," she said, turning round to face to the impressively assembled crowd, parrot on her shoulder. "Now, these beautiful, intelligent birds are under threat and we need to act now to save them and their habitat. So if you could all give generously as the bucket comes around we can do our part."

Terry wrinkled his nose as a feather dropped down onto his shoulder. He had no idea why anyone would want to save these...flying rodents, but everyone was cheering and clapping, even as the parrots squawked and screeched and called out "Hello! Hello!" over and over again. People were even crowding him, and he felt someone bump into him from behind.

Before he could do anymore than start to turn and glare, one of the trainers spotted him. "Mr Benedict! Thank you so much for allowing us to do this. You have no idea what it means." She held out her hand and pulled him into the middle of the floor. "Everybody, please put your hands together for Mr Terry Benedict."

With a gracious smile, Terry stood back and basked in the applause.

"Calling birds?" Danny asked slowly.

Rusty looked at him. "They're calling, aren't they?"

"Ye-es," Danny conceded. "But they're parrots."

"But they are calling," Rusty repeated, unmoved.

"Actually," Linus said, as he slipped out of the Mirage. "It's, uh, supposed to be colly birds. In the song, I mean. Not calling."

They both stared at him. "Collie birds," Danny repeated, eyebrow raised. "Like the sheepdog?"

"Like Lassie?" Rusty expanded, head tilted to one side in thought.

Danny turned to look at him. "Lassie with wings."

"Four Lassies with wings," Rusty corrected.

He pursed his lips. "Well that would - "

" - how would they even get off the ground?" Rusty nodded. "Still - "

" - oh, I'd go see it," Danny agreed. "Better than parrots." He turned back to Linus. "So, did you get it?"

Linus nodded nonchalantly, and half pulled the security card out of his jacket. "A little bird gave me this."

"And you planted the cloned one back on Terry?" Rusty pressed.

"Easily," Linus said, with carefully casual confidence.

"And he didn't see you?" Danny added, face straight.

There was just a hint of exasperation in Linus' eyes. "Guys, I think we'd have noticed if he did," he pointed out.

They let the grin show.

Linus rolled his eyes. "Honestly..." He seemed to struggle for words for a second then give up. "I'd better get back. I'll leave you to do your thing."

They watched him walk away. "Parrots," Danny said eventually.

Rusty shrugged. "They were calling."

5.

Terry was walking back towards his office when he got a phone call.

"Uh, Mr Benedict, sir?" Dwight said nervously. "We have a...situation...at the entrance."

Already displeased just by the euphemism, he headed round and was immediately confronted with six or seven men in what appeared to be paper hazmat suits, standing in front of a large white van with 'Five Ring Environmental Cleaning' written on the side in bright gold.

"No," he said immediately. "Absolutely not. I don't know who called you, but there's been a mistake."

"Easy, there," the lead figure – and the only one not currently masked – said with a broken-toothed grin. "It was the city called us, and we aren't exactly here for you. Roger Abner, Five Ring Cleaning." He handed over a business card like it was a reflex action, and Terry took it in much the same way. "Toxic and hazardous material our speciality, call us any time, day or night. If we don't pick up within five rings, you'll get a twenty percent discount. And right now, we're here because there's been some sort of chemical spill in the old sewers. Very nasty, and it runs right under here, so we need access through your basement, see?"

He produced a large, brightly coloured and incomprehensible map.

Terry ignored it and nodded quickly at Dwight, who got on the phone at once. "Is this really the only way through?" he demanded coolly.

Roger shrugged his shoulders comfortably. "Less you want us to close the street."

Terry's lips thinned. Closing the street would be even worse for business than having these clowns trample through. His eyes flickered back to Dwight, who nodded. "They're legit, boss."

"Alright," he said slowly. "Dwight will show you round to the goods entrance and take you through to the basement."

"Sure thing," Roger said cheerfully. "Come on, boys." At once, half a dozen masked men moved to follow him.

A spark of warning leapt through Terry's mind. There had been a few too many odd occurrences today for his liking. "Wait," he demanded imperiously. "Take your masks off."

They milled around for a second in confusion then, with no alternative, complied, and Terry found himself looking at six complete strangers. He relaxed at once. Just for a moment there he'd been afraid...no. He was being paranoid.

Linus moved his hand away from his ear. "The guys were right, Benedict insisted on seeing the cleaners' faces."

"You surprised?" Virgil said with a snort. "He's not a complete moron, after all."

"Well," Livingston said distractedly, doing a third last minute check of his equipment. "He hasn't had us killed yet. Some would say that's pretty moronic of him."

"Uh, yeah, let's try and keep it that way," Linus said, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. The cleaning closet was more than a little cramped with the three of them piled in here in there hasmat suits. "So how are the kids?" he asked, looking for any kind of distraction.

Virgil's face lit up. "Great!" He dug into his pocket for his phone. "Sarah sent me through some more photos this morning. Sonny's started doing this really cute thing with his nose, you have to see..."

Linus doubted they were really any different than the pictures he'd seen yesterday. God, he hoped the cleaning crew came past soon.

6...and 7

Terry was walking back across the casino floor when the fight broke out right in front of him. Two rival college football times had apparently been stupid enough to book the same winter vacation, and that meant six members of the Baskerville Fighting Geese were busy trying to drown seven members of the Carltonville Swans in the ornamental water feature. Even as he watched, dumbfounded, the Geese moved into some kind of victory dance that apparently signified laying an egg...or making a touchdown. He honestly wasn't sure, and he was glad when security quickly moved in, though by that time the fight had fallen through the door into the kitchens.

It would be a relief when this Christmas nonsense was over, he thought, and that was the moment when a stray Goose tried to throw a trifle at a Swan and somehow managed to get Terry full in the face.

Cream dripped slowly down his nose. Right now, he hated everyone.

Livingston smiled nervously at the display on his phone. "Um, guys, we owe Craig the five thousand dollar bonus," he announced. "Right in the face."

Linus was torn between amusement and apprehension. However fun this might be now, Benedict was unlikely to see the funny side anytime soon.

"I still say real geese would have been more of a distraction," Virgil grumbled as they slid out of the supply closet and joined the end of the line of hazmat wearers. At Linus' nod, three of the real cleaners quickly took their place in the closet. The swap over was done in seconds, and all the time Dwight was still busy watching the fight going on in the kitchen.

From there, it was just a question of following along as Dwight cleared them into the back levels of the casino and waiting until the crew had been shown to the sub-basement. Then they simply removed the hazmat suits and headed back upstairs. Wear a suit that was the right sort of ill-fitting and had the right sort of tell tale holster bulges, add in an ID badge and an obvious ear piece, and suddenly no one even thought of questioning whether or not you actually worked here. Particularly not when they were already inside, and when Terry's security badge swiped them through every check point right into the security office.

There was only two guys there now, both pale and sweaty. A thick smell of vomit hung in the air, and the nearby waste baskets were all incredibly full.

"Jesus," Linus said, wrinkling his nose up in obvious disgust. "Alright, we're here to relieve you. Get outta here, for fuck's sake."

They barely glanced at his credentials. They barely glanced at him. Right now, he thought he could probably have said "Hi, my name is Linus Caldwell, you know me as a member of Ocean's 11, and I'm here to rob the place again," and they'd probably still have taken the opportunity to dive for the door and run for home.

Seriously, he did feel at least a little sorry for them.

The door closed behind them, and Virgil set about watching it, while Livingston grabbed a seat and a computer...or all the computers...and started doing his thing.

"Okay," he said eventually. "Nothing's being recorded and I've taken down as much of the stuff around Benedict's office as I can. Guys, you're free to go."

"Appreciate it, Livingston," Danny's voice rang out crisply.

"Don't hang around there longer than you have to," Rusty added.

"When it smells like this?" Linus snorted. "We'd already figured that." Suddenly, he had a good idea why they'd given him this part.

Now they just had to make sure Terry stayed away from his office long enough for them to get done.

9.

People wanting to talk to him was not exactly unusual, and generally he preferred it if they made an appointment, but when the willowy blonde stepped in his path as he was heading for the office, followed by a further seven women, all equally statuesque, he felt obliged to stop.

"Can I help you, ladies?" he asked with a slight curve of his lips. He had always had a weakness for tall women.

"Ah, Mr Benedict," she said with a clear Russian accent. "My name is Natalya Boykova. I am with the Kiev Ballet Company and we have proposition for you."

"We wish to dance," the redhead a step behind her said. "Here. Tonight. We must practice. We must have audience."

"Quiet, Tatiana," Natalya said imperiously. "Mr Benedict, you will have heard of us. We are excellent. We perform Nutcracker. Everyone comes to see. You make money, we have performance, everyone is happy."

He hesitated, and in the pause, a couple of the dancers started warming up, which was something that very rarely happened on a casino floor. "Perhaps we should talk it over," he said thoughtfully. There were possibilities here. Opportunities.

"Very well," Natalya nodded decisively. "You will come with us to the bar. We will drink vodka and we will talk."

"Yes," he said, smiling thinly. He didn't care to be ordered around. Still, he didn't particularly want to have half a ballet troupe in his office. "This way."

They sauntered past the currently-silent partridge, and slid through the door into Terry's office. Danny headed straight for the safe while Rusty made for the computer. They had to make sure Terry didn't have any electronic copies of the files.

"So," Danny said, after a second. "The Kiev Ballet company."

"Yep," Rusty agreed, not looking up. "Natalya's an old friend."

He grinned to himself. "I gathered that."

"And so is Tatiana," Rusty added thoughtfuly.

"Uh huh." Danny grinned some more.

"And Pavel, for a while," Rusty said, after the silence stretched on a second longer.

"All old friends," Danny nodded innocently. "Nice to see them all again, I'm sure."

"Yeah." Rusty glanced up at him, his lips pursed. "Which is why I made you call them."

Danny held his hands up, not bothering to hide his amusement. "I wasn't asking."

"Oh, you were asking," Rusty corrected. He sighed. "You know Terry has 'Bellagio' as his password? Is it wrong that I want to leave him a memo on password security."

"Yes," he said, after a long moment's consideration.

"Alright then," Rusty said brightly. "I'll just change his password to something more secure."

"Uh huh," Danny carefully focused on the safe. "Like what?"

There was the sound of mischievous typing.

"Like what?" Danny repeated suspiciously.

Rusty grinned. "Your name."

He sighed with mock regret. "Why do I think Terry isn't going to appreciate his present?"

10

Terry left the bar, his head swimming slightly from the two double vodkas the dancers had insisted he drink to 'seal the deal'. He'd always thought ballerinas existed solely on celery and ambition. Where the hell did two hundred dollar vodka come into it?

He tried to head for his office again, but almost immediately he was accosted by a belligerent customer in a morning coat and a top hat, with an English accent you could cut glass with. "Oy, you. You there. Are you the manager fellow?"

He gave a tight smile. "I am the owner," he emphasised.

To his irritation the man's condescending expression didn't change in the slightest as he beckoned his three friends over. "Well, I am Lord Seabury and these are my friends Lord Fawksworth, Lord Cliffton-Styles and Mr J. Marley Esq, and we are all very unhappy at the service we have experienced today."

"Ver' unhappy," Lord Cliffton-Styles echoed mournfully.

There was a lot of money and power in this conversation. And even though Terry was confident that most of it belonged to him, he wasn't going to just dismiss them out of hand.

"I'm very sorry to hear that," he said, his smile fixed. "Why don't you tell me about it and I'll see what I can do."

"Anyone notice that there's not ten of them?" Frank commented.

"And that they're not leaping," Turk chimed in.

"And that they aren't even lords," Saul added gloomily.

They all looked at Basher who held his hands up defensively. "Fuck it. You have any idea how hard it is to source ten lords at the last minute? I don't have the fucking British aristocracy on speed dial, you know."

Yen rolled his eyes and made a rude comment.

"In my day," Saul said with a sigh. "If someone was asked to get ten lords – leaping or otherwise – that is what we would deliver."

"Well, in my day we got austerity cuts and anti-monarchists to think about," Basher said inexplicably, with a scowl. "Are Danny and Rusty just about done or what?"

"Just finishing up," Turk told him. "And Virgil, Linus and Livingston are clear."

"Right," Basher nodded. "So it's time to cue the noise."

11. and 12.

At the exact moment that Terry put his hand on his office door, the most god-awful cacophony started up. Startled, he immediately hurried to the window only to see a pipe and drum band playing on the front lawn. "What the hell is that?" he shouted to Marcia over the hideous sound.

She cocked her head. "I think it's 'Galway Bay'."

He closed his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose lightly. "Get rid of it," he demanded as calmly as he could. "Get rid of it now."

As she nodded and grabbed her phone, he glanced back at the window, blinked, and stared harder, searching through the crowd. Just for a moment, just for a fraction of a second of worst-nightmare he thought he'd seen...

No. No, he was imagining things. Thank God.

They slipped out of the office just as the band was starting up and calmly put the drum carrier full of files next to one of the drummers. He gave them a nod but never missed a beat.

Danny smiled approvingly. Shades of the Titanic.

Then they slid on their Santa hats and vanished into the crowd. They could pick the files up later.

"Suits you," Rusty murmured, glancing at his head.

Danny glanced right back. "More your colour, I would have thought."

"Yeah, but you look more the part," Rusty said innocently.

"Uh huh." Danny pursed his lips and manfully didn't rise to the bait.

"You wouldn't even need a pillow is what I'm saying," Rusty went on.

"Right," Danny nodded. "You know, the last time you saw me naked you said I was perfect."

"How could I forget?" Rusty said in a low sultry voice, batting his eyelashes outrageously.

"Uh, guys? You know this is still a party line, right?" Linus interjected over the intercom.

"Yes, Linus," they chorused.

"Fine," Linus muttered. "I'll just be over here, covering my ears."

"I just thought I told you to keep the weight off in between," Rusty mused.

Danny grinned. "And I thought I told you you to settle down and have a couple of kids."

"Mmm." Rusty said thoughtfully. "Truce?"

"Truce," Danny agreed. "Pizza?"

"Christmas pizza?" Rusty requested hopefully.

"Sure," Danny agreed affably. "Just as soon as we figure out what the hell that is."

Later, over Christmas pizza and brandy at Reuben's - who had been more than a little angry at having been kept out of the loop, but more than a little entertained to hear the whole story - Linus was standing in front of the fireplace, counting on his fingers.

"Having trouble, kid?" Danny asked with interest.

Linus stared at him, blinking. "What happened to eight?" he asked.

"Oh, that." Danny glanced at Rusty, who grinned. "Well..."

...And 8

The district attorney had been wined, dined and had watched the delights of the Kiev Ballet Company with every evidence of enjoyment. And once all the niceties were concluded, Terry had taken him through to his office, promising to show him all the evidence he would need to go after Tishkoff.

Confident of a very merry Christmas, he opened the safe with a flourish...and was confronted with piles and piles of flyers. For hookers. Hookers dressed in French Maid outfits, promising a milking no man could forget.

He stared, only dimly aware of the DA demanding if this was a joke.

It was. It was definitely a joke and, as ever, it was on him.

He could feel his left eye twitching.

"...Well," Rusty agreed. "Terry's safe looked a little empty."

"So we filled it," Danny finished cheerfully. "With a special present, just for him. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Rusty echoed, and Linus rolled his eyes in frustration.